Beyond Perplexing Clouds, the Stars Prevail
by Fluffy Cookies
Summary: Kumojacky never understood those who were like Earth's skies, ever-changing as they were. He only knew of desire and strength. Then he fought the weakest Precure one evening, and while valor and strength guided his blade, there was something about the girl's convictions and the stars adorning her eyes that gave him release that day.


**A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this one. I'm just recently getting back into the practice of writing in this style, so there may be some differences in this one from** _ **Blooming Over Time's**_ **writing style. I'll hopefully write on a more regular basis from now on so I don't "forget" how this style works. Also, the spelling for Kumojacky's name seems to vary, so I just decided to go with the spelling I was most familiar with. Enjoy. c:**

* * *

 ** _Summary_** _: Kumojacky never understood those who were like Earth's skies, ever-changing as they were. He only knew of desire and strength. Then he fought the weakest Precure one evening, and while valor and strength guided his blade, there was something about the girl's convictions and the stars adorning her eyes that gave him release that day._

* * *

 _"Honor your being; release each and every struggle; gather strength from life's storms; relax into the arms of spirit."_

\- _Jonathan Lockwood Huie_

* * *

 _Beyond Perplexing Clouds, the Stars Prevail_

 _I. Desire_

Kumojacky cannot determine if what he witnesses is stunning or jarring.

The patterns of Earth's sky are oily this evening, a pitiful mess of smudged clouds that cannot sway their course. Spineless, they twist and curl under the sky's whims. Yet, despite the numerous intricate and tangled patterns they form, light always finds its way through their dull barricades.

Whatever it is he sees amongst this earth at this very moment, in this town's flourishing positivity and the Precure who defend it, Kumojacky finds that he doesn't know now. He cannot stop staring at these deceitful clouds, at the newborn stars that peek from their smeared layers. Impossibly beautiful— _No, unbearably dreadful,_ Kumojacky makes himself reaffirm—the clouds are enigmatic and delicate entities that he cannot understand, but he still tries to listen to them anyway.

Kumojacky closes his eyes, stills his mind, grips the hilt of his sword. Chin still aimed skyward, he releases a worn sigh. He will not let himself be deceived by the sky's ephemeral lullabies any longer; he has no time to think of them anymore.

He whips his blade from its sheath and cuts the airstream that runs its fingers through his coarse hair. And although he cannot see the precise and pure vertical slash defy the confusing and squalid sky, he breathes with his blade. It is a worthy enough substitute for his vision.

He opens his eyes and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Earth is tempting but ever so fragile, and he need not burden himself with complexities and patterns of life that will fall apart in time.

The only concept that is firm like the steel of his blade is power. It is reliable and stable and all he needs to thrive. Direct and true, it does not deform as easily as the hearts and petals of those that pursue compassion.

 _Compassionate. Weak._ The smirk that snags his lips is unpreventable. Inevitably, this thought brings him back to the Precure and how they seem to challenge this very notion.

 _For now, they do._

Desire coils and boils in his gut and he cannot stop thinking about the fight he seeks, the fight that will feed this festering want, the potential clash that has guided him to Earth on this day. There is a rift—a persistent one that he must close on a regular basis—in his chest that only the roar of battle can repair, and he's used Desertrians long enough to know that out of the Precure, at least Marine, Sunshine, and Moonlight, are worthy enough to face him.

For a moment, Kumojacky envisions the worst—Cure Blossom somehow finding herself under the weight of his blade—and shakes his head. He will not deny that she has some semblance of conviction, but she lacks the grace of Sunshine, the energy of Marine, and the tactics of Moonlight.

He realizes that these thoughts slow him down too much, so he refocuses on the starlit body of his blade that cleaves the sky's myriad clouds in his sight. He recalls that he must be like his blade: still and dominant. There is no more room for thoughts such as these nor is there any need of them, really.

There is only the call for action that wills him to give this seething adrenaline release.

 _II. Valor_

It was at the hill that overlooks many of Kibougahana's buildings where Kumojacky decided to lure the Precure.

He has already torn many flowers from their cradles in the soft ground. People have already gone screaming for help amongst the land he's bruised in mere seconds.

Only he remains in this empty, dead greyness of space.

When he hears a pair of heels hit the ground, he turns to the source, expecting the Precure. Something drops in his gut a bit—enthusiasm, perhaps—when he sees only a girl donned in pink. Against the murky clouds, she stands, eye-shatteringly vibrant. And although Kumojacky does not believe she is worthy enough to be called a Precure, he knows that whatever light manages to reach her from the sky suits her physique and skin well. Dully, he notices that her fairy is nowhere in sight, but that doesn't matter right now.

"Cure Blossom," he begins with an expression that lacks the smirk that carved his face some time ago. Ribbons of rose hair trace pink eyes that seem to look through him, as if lost and intrigued at the same time. She bears a face— _no, a form_ —of unhindered innocence, and Kumojacky wants to wipe out the weakness that her aura is infested with. "You are too weak to challenge me."

Though the swelling adrenaline inside of him wished for him to not speak those words of finality, they are true. He is not one for judging others by their covers, but Cure Blossom is a book whose pages are just like her cover: she is too feeble; all bark and no bite.

Blossom seems to jerk at his words and the display of ruin he has strewn across the land they stand in. There are lost petals and shredded flowers, some blackened and others vibrant, that soar high or lie in the sullied grass. The air has grown distant and cold, and although everything seems still, the grass still rolls in rhythmic waves just as innumerable bits of flora hang in the wind's gliding grip.

When she speaks, the breeze that comes and goes between them is just like her voice: delicate and somehow unyielding. "You did all of this just to fight us, didn't you?"

Kumojacky snorts, but his face is only hard and stern. Somehow, she reads people all too well with those prying eyes of hers; the same eyes that still trace his own gaze.

"And so I did, and now, here we are. But you are the weakest Precure of them all, and I've no wish to fight weaklings."

If those words are of any effect on the dainty girl, Kumojacky believes he sees this in how anger creeps on her soft features and seizes them. Her eyes narrow and her brow tightens and her stance tenses.

"I've _really_ had it with you. You just have to mess up things like this all the time, don't you?"

By the time he registers that this is a challenge, his sword becomes an extension of his arm and blocks Blossom's kick from above. He savors this moment for as long as it lasts, studies how Blossom glares him down, and he feels himself smirk because of the _burn_ that now flares throughout his body from his gut.

Kumojacky's boots draw light grooves in the ground as Blossom pushes herself off the flat of his blade. Undeterred, he watches her land as she brings her hands to the heart emblem that rests upon her chest. In a blur of pink radiance, her tact manifests in her firm grip just as she's poised to fight.

"Maybe you have the right to do battle with me, after all." He steadies himself, inhales his impatience, and kicks up low sheets of scalpel-shaped grass and gritty dust when he charges. It is almost as if he is there at an instant, ready to run clean steel down through whatever defenses she has.

Blossom attempts to parry with her tact, but Kumojacky senses her frustration before her face begins to tighten from the force of their clash. The tact is small and not designed for swordplay just as she is not skilled at it, and so she is left a fumbling mess beneath his sword, a sore reminder of how he'd imagined a fight between them play out minutes before they clashed.

It does not take him any longer than a split second to force her down. Blossom, however, is petite and lighter, far much more than he, and so she shrinks away from the reach of his blade before it grazes her. When he swings again, he begins to feel the ache advance upon his shoulders—his sword is heavier than it seems to be—and when he feels the sweat crawl and fester with hotness and coolness all over his body, he cannot help but grin.

This time, Blossom dances around the blow. She's been a nuisance this entire battle, a fast target he needs to hit a few times, and Kumojacky hates it. His enemies should be engaged in a test of strength, not elusive. _Coward_ , his mind growls. To him, it is not stratagem that bears the heart of battle, but perseverance in power. And it is not for the sake of it, but because there is something about power that gives him the push he so desperately needs in his determination, the kind of push that all warriors should have, he thinks.

He knows that what he lacks in speed, he makes up for in his endurance, just as this is the opposite for Blossom. So he keeps swinging— _down, up where she tries to flee again_ —and as she begins to lose her footing, Kumojacky advances. The momentum of his next strike is harsh, and Blossom yelps as she tumbles away. For a moment, Kumojacky stands in awe, even if his expression does not unveil this emotion—his blade has _never_ met the flesh of a Precure before—and he believes he is seeing things. But as Blossom staggers upward and presses a fidgetting hand to her side, and Kumojacky's dark bracelet seems to purr and cackle with shadowy electricity, mending his burning and throbbing nerves as a reward for landing a hit, it doesn't take long for him to fully believe what he's done.

Blossom does not bleed—Precure, like the Desert Apostles, are durable beyond belief, Kumojacky recalls—but they are not so durable that they feel no pain. She is hunched over, huffing and soiled by dirt, and she does not withdraw her gaze from the bleached grass. Though he can narrowly see her eyes as they flash every which way, Kumojacky can see the hurt in them, the hesitance that swims in them.

" _Weak,_ " he spits, charging up all of his impatience and rage into his next slash as he launches himself forward. All Blossom does is lift a useless arm to shield herself— _she is_ ** _pitiful_** , his mind screeches—and when he swings in a downward trajectory, he is certain that she will fall for good this time.

By some inane luck, however, Blossom rethinks her action and stumbles away just in time. Kumojacky's jaw clenches as the sword comes close to her sweaty flesh— _oh, so close_ —and he believes that this is it, that she will fall soon, even if he does not hit her this time. When Blossom suddenly stops shuffling backward, now meters away from him, Kumojacky can sense the strange longing that laces her shaking frame. He can taste the fear of her shudder, can detect the distress in the uneasy gaze that does not meet his own. She is just like the enigmatic clouds in the sky that accompany her, still flowing and darkening at this very moment. They only seem to linger, only seem to suffer more and more, just like the dead petals that still possess the air around them...

"You disappoint me, Cure Blossom," he says before he decides to end this pointless strife for good. He does not want to do this in the most logical way, but he has wasted too much time on this. So he cuts patterns in the air with his sword, and crescent-arced projectiles claw the air with their red brilliance after each swing.

The ground is glutted by these strikes, and it vomits curtains of dust that spread outward and upward. Despite how much they conceal Blossom, they are still merciless enough to reveal shadowed angles of the straining girl. She is screaming and retreating further beneath the murky layers of hot grit and black particles.

It takes time for some of the dust to clear and for Kumojacky to realize that he has lost her. With a whip of his blade, the walls of grime split themselves asunder before him, but she still lurks out of his sight along this dry and drab land. Fast footfalls guide his sight to his left side, shrouded in dust, and through a sweat-soaked drape of red hair, he is able to make out her form.

She is running _away_ , and Kumojacky despises her at this point. His arm begs for more force to be put into his next blow, but Kumojacky knows that it will not be worth the effort to do so. He sends the final crimson projectile her way, and though he is far from her, he can feel the cruel jolt seize her body and paralyze her. The tact hits the ground in unison with her.

As she falls limp into the earth's arms, he takes his time approaching her. He still burns inside and yearns for the call of _true_ battle, every ache and every pulse in his body is not _enough_ , but he remembers that he is a Desert Apostle and that he must defeat her for good.

Smothered by his shadow, her hair is now unbound, lacking its ribbon, and is not as long as it usually is—it only brushes her waist, swaying and smooth—and she is lying face-down. Bright eyes waver but manage to meet his glare from bundles of resplendent hair. Her eyes mirror the messy sky above them, distant and otherworldly.

He presses his sword against a semi-bare back that tenses with fear, nearly snags one of the crisscrossed, magenta straps with radiant steel. He does not bear an expression of satisfaction.

"You are not only the weakest Precure but also the most cowardly of them all," he whispers, feeling the wind caress his body from behind. It pushes and pulls on the two of them, makes the lowest portion of his overcoat ebb and flow— _just like the sea's strange waves_ , he thinks—and he knows it connects his and her silhouettes against the newborn indigo skies and their stars. "Give in," he hisses.

She blinks, and when her eyes reveal themselves again, Kumojacky thinks he sees stars in them this time. The rim of one of her eyes is strangled by a tear, and it too possesses the luminosity that pities them from above.

"You're right," she says, pathetic and quiet. She pushes herself up, but the sharp edge only indents her skin further, surrounded by strands of hair that curve and coil in strange patterns. "I am the weakest and most cowardly one."

She pauses, probably to savor these last words of hers, and Kumojacky lets her have all the time she needs.

 _III. Convictions_

"But I'm still bettering myself, even if I do screw up sometimes." Her voice is cracking, but somehow it is again like the breezes, and this time they sound sturdy and willful— _direct and true_ —and Kumojacky thinks he is lost for a moment. "I believe in myself."

It is so sudden, then, when he feels a palm press against his abdomen with terrifying speed—he cannot see how fast she moves, her eyes are so intense and strange and he finds himself thinking only about them, her words and the stars, wondering what exactly they _mean_ —and uncharacteristically, he does not know what to do now, because the rift in his chest wills him to stay off guard anyway.

" _Blossom Impact_ ," she says, narrowly above a whisper just as Kumojacky thinks he sees the tear slip below her eye. Blinding light sears his eyes and Blossom's palm burns just as it blasts him afar, and he cannot withhold a heavy grunt as he takes the blow.

Out of his control, his fingers uncoil themselves around the hilt of his sword, but all he sees is the sky and its piercing atoms of celestial lights. He is not sure if he hears anything in this ephemeral moment, but he finds that his chest's rift feels different, as if it's a little lighter, a little more bearable...

His sword clatters somewhere in the distance just as he hits the ground. There is no steel to guide his eyes from the hypnotizing sky this time. And for the first time since he first breathed as a Desert Apostle, Kumojacky wonders what the gap in his chest really desires.

It makes him hesitant, and he does not like it. He forces himself up, marked in grit, and sees that Blossom is bathed in starlight. And even though she stands etched with the blemishes of battle and scars of soot, she looks more brilliant and purer than any steel he has laid eyes on. She reeks of an aura of everything that is flowery and compassionate, soft and ever-changing— _of everything that is not always reliable and stable_ —but her eyes bear something of greatness, something untainted and genuine, a strength of sorts.

This time, it is her that charges, she who commences the battle. Her tact, resplendent and aglow, slits the air with grace. Pink projectiles that do not bear steady shapes come for him, and all he does is lift his arms to shield himself from the assault.

" _Why_ do you believe in what you do?" Blossom's harsh intonation cuts through the blaring barrage that slams into his seemingly empty chest and his suddenly cold limbs that were once blazing with adrenaline. "Why do you mess with the hearts of others? Why do you want to fight? What do you _want_?"

"To _fight_! To challenge those worthy of fighting _me_!" he snaps, but there is a new feeling that swells in his chest, something that longs for deceitful truths and lies that he will never understand. It wills these new and yet nostalgic images, these otherworldly fragments of a life that isn't his, to stir about in his mind; projections that he doesn't know but does know at the same time are blurry but clear to him simultaneously.

Bits and pieces of this life strangle his head. A man called Kumamoto, bearing a face that he cannot quite see. Hazy bodies performing deadly dances that only battle would demand. A dojo and its glossy, autumn floorboards. Voices filled with force and mirth. A sharp feint. A low twist. _Fighting with a better purpose._

He is so adrift in these thoughts that he is unable to dodge the fist that rams into his torso. And despite its lacking force— _constrained by the heart of one who cares_ —it hurts. It hurts him and it pains him and Kumojacky does not know why.

Blossom keeps punching him and all Kumojacky thinks he can see are her eyes, those cryptic and melancholic eyes that carry with them ideas he thinks should waver and crumble away in time, but they mysteriously do not. They persist. They strive. They make him falter, somehow find a way to unbalance him and defy everything he's understood. And now he cannot shake off this haunting and taunting hunch that he isn't so powerful at all.

"Do you really mean it?" Blossom spits, sending him skidding away, gaze unmoving. Tears journey down her cheeks, cutting through mottles of dirt. There is commiseration in them and Kumojacky wants to destroy it. Blossom brings a hand to the teal heart on her chest. "Please, just _think._ Think about what you really want and believe in. _Please_."

It is these words that make him go still for good. Valor lost and his blade still astray, fear seizes his joints, but even if he keeps his expression from betraying this feeling, his face feels tight and unnatural. He is not sure if he will ever comprehend these abstract notions that are not so firm.

It is then that he sees what he should've known to be the inevitable: streaks of aquamarine, gold, and lavender scissoring through the inky sky, like shooting stars that would always dominate the focus of other stars, coming to Blossom's aid. He realizes that her fairy had gone to alert them, and now he will be outmatched without any Desertrian to assist him.

It dawns on Kumojacky that he feels like a coward in these moments that he declares will be the last few as he faces Blossom. Behind her, her waist-long hair mimics the movements of the wind, traces the sky's pinpoints of light, and her messy bangs lash across her tear-and-sweat-slicked face.

Kumojacky still thinks her to be pitiful and fragile— _and impossibly beautiful_ —but also somehow formidable, and worthy, and inspiring...

He latches his eyes on his blade, takes it, and tightens his grip on the precious weapon. He has been breathing hard and his chest is pulsing with something that makes it feel less hollow, more true and precise. But it all seems like a fleeting moment that will abandon him soon.

He cannot think up a phrase for his departure. His mind is jumbled and deformed and he is running out of time. So he tries to scoff, but the angles of his face do not feel as true as they usually do when he shifts them, and they leave Blossom unaffected.

Briefly, he thinks of the strong and of the weak, of how they react and why they do. Here, he does not know who the strongest or weakest is now, strangely. Lost and wanting, he decides to teleport away— _to run away_ —and only then does he truly realize how tired he is.

 _IV. Release_

When the somber familiarity of the Desert Apostle base welcomes Kumojacky's worn eyes, he looks at the sky. This time, it not only bears stars but the moon as well, luminous and all-knowing.

Perched atop a bitter rock, Kumojacky inhales and brings a throbbing hand to his chest. It is a gesture that he'd never thought himself to use, but then again, he is not sure if he understands why he even acts now.

Beyond his reach, the stars are scattered in unconnected patterns that are vivid and complex. He is not sure if he comprehends the sky this time, but he knows for certain that it is alluring.

His chest still beats with a softer desire that he cannot yet decipher or understand, but it is something warm that helps fill the gap there.

He will always think of the skies. He will always think of Cure Blossom's words. It is these thoughts that he can grasp. He does not know why he will, but he considers that, perhaps, it's because thinking is a useful substitute for combat when he needs to clear his head, ironically.

Calmly, he snorts, and his face is relaxed again. He'd never expected Cure Blossom to be the Precure that would make him feel fear.

 _Maybe you fought well_ , he thinks. _You were a worthy opponent, in a way, after all._

If he is to heed anyone's advice, it is from those he considers worthy. He recalls the tears she shed for him, how they shone with the assistance of starlight. And though he knows that he needs no one's tears to give him strength, he thinks there is a part of himself that appreciates them.

Any adrenaline that he had before is now nonexistent as if he hadn't fought at all. He does not care about that now.

Beside him, his blade has long since stabbed the desert sand, an artifact that he has forgotten. Its steel does not glow like the display above him.

He thinks and muses, and briefly, he's seeing the images of Kumamoto's blurred face again. All he can see is the positive twist on his lips, and the smile seems almost too familiar. It gives him a sense of release that he has not felt before.

He snorts, and the smirk he makes seems to mold into Kumamoto's smile, something evocative and precious to a part of himself _._ And for now, Kumojacky believes in whatever it is that lies beyond his grasp. When he reads the grandiose sky above him again, he begins to understand its implications and his own thoughts.


End file.
